


not quite a namesake, exiled all the same

by Jaybird_Wings



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Exiled TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Gen, Mentioned Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned Toby Smith | Tubbo, Mentioned Wilbur Soot, Tommy's alone or in his head for most of this one, Tommy's been through a lot idk give him something good, Video Game Mechanics, tbh not really sure what I'm trying to tell here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:01:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28647219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaybird_Wings/pseuds/Jaybird_Wings
Summary: Tommy finds Techno's house, and a thought crawls into his head.He could stay here.He’s known Techno for years, and the piglin had been of a friend of Phil for longer than Tommy himself had been alive. Surely Techno could grant some sanctuary to him.But Techno hurt Tubbo.So Tommy leaves, and continues to travel through biome after biome, pass village after village, and settles down.Theseus died in exile, but Tommy desperately doesn't want to.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 162





	not quite a namesake, exiled all the same

**Author's Note:**

> tw for cursing and mention of suicide but it's just a couple sentences in reference to the exile arc.

Tommy has been trudging through the snow for what has felt like hours when he sees Techno’s base. 

He runs in eagerly and without a thought and steals every precious item he can fit into his bag. Apples, potions, food, hell he even snags Techno’s red cape. It had been tucked away, not fit for such cold weather.   
And for a moment, a thought crawls into his head. 

He could stay here.

He’s known Techno for years, and the piglin had been of a friend of Phil for longer than Tommy himself had been alive. Surely Techno could grant some sanctuary to him.  
But Techno hurt Tubbo. Even if thinking about Tubbo…. hurt, well, he was always known for holding grudges for a long time.   
He clasps his bag shut, wraps the heavy cape around his shoulders, over Wilbur’s ragged brown coat, and continues on in the snow. 

The snow biome eventually fades to valleys, and still, he keeps the coats on.

Tommy had almost forgotten that exile wasn’t that hard to survive in. He had gotten used to Dream pressing reset and destroying all of his stuff. But eventually, he mined and smelted enough iron for some protection and an axe to kill mobs with. Starving stopped becoming a problem when he could save up on food, and he hoarded enough planks for whenever he needed to build a make-shift shack somewhere. 

And so he leaves L’manberg, Dream SMP, and now Logstedshire far behind him.

  
He passes paths with a trader who tries to sell his wares to the obviously very worn traveler before him. The last living person he spoke to was Dream, so the kind lilt of his voice and lack of manipulation startles him. The trader doesn’t even have a weapon on him (probably hidden) but his distrust kicks in. What if Dream sent him, what if this is a test, what if something he’s sold has a tracker, what if-  
He shakes his head, his voice failing him. 

Sleep hasn’t come easy since the first war, and it doesn’t come any easier now. The euphoria of running fades when he realizes he doesn’t know where he’s going. Maybe that doesn’t matter, but what Dream put him through will never fade away. The physical and mental scars will remain, and the two black lines on his wrist representing the lives he lost for people who don’t even care about him. 

But even if he’s still paranoid, eventually he stops by a village and asks where they are. The shop owner is kind, which still sets off alarm bells (Dream, with a soft and kind voice, would insist that they were friends. He actually believed the demon for a little while there. Just until the world blew up.) 

He is far from L’manberg and the Dream SMP. 

The shop owner points out his accent, and for a moment Tommy is convinced he’s somehow caught. That this random villager in this secluded village knows that Tommy is the son of King Philza of the Antarctic Empire, ex-Vice President of L’manberg, and current runaway from his exile under Dream.   
But the man laughs and says he has a son working as a blacksmith in a small country near the young L’manberg and asks if he got tired of all the war.

“Kind of. I got tired of the people. Or, the people got tired of me.” He grunts. 

And maybe people give him concerned looks because he’s so young, but he leaves before nightfall. That night he dreams of soldiers' uniforms and smudged ink in books full of lies. 

His hair, already long from exile, can now be braided. He only knows how to make one that doesn’t fall apart because he’d braid Techno’s hair when he visited Phil’s house.

The next village he’s in, he buys less torn up clothes. He packs away the cloak and coat from his brot- from Wilbur and Techno. It was getting too hot for those kinds of clothes anyway.   
And for a while, he just travels. He has better shoes that are falling apart at the soles, and he gives up his red and white t-shirt for a green sweater. Studier jeans that don’t get torn up when he travels through a wood with thorny bushes.   
The lighter coat is better than a cape with the antarctic insignia on it, or Wilbur’s coat with the old L’manberg flag embroidered on it. This far out there are people who don’t even know what L’manberg is, but he’s trying to leave his past behind him. 

When he settles down, it’s by accident. 

He doesn’t like stopping by villages, honestly, but he was running low on food and most of the wild animals in the area were herded into farms. He could go days without food, but the village seemed easier in the end. 

He’s paid his emeralds in trade for some steak when pillagers come. With just a wooden sword and his wits, he takes them out and the village thanks him. They offer him free bed for the night, free food, and even free weapons and gear. He’s not one to reject free stuff, so he accepts it all.   
The next day the village elders plead with him for help. They don’t have much, but they’ll reward him greatly if he finds the pillager outpost to prevent any future raids.   
Tommy is worn from travel and lacking in gear, so he spends the next weeks preparing properly. Spends days strip mining for diamond gear. He tries actually sleeping at night so he doesn’t pass out during the fight. Eats more consistently and heartily with the villagers. 

Some curious kids ask him how to sword fight, and he fixes up some harmless wooden swords and shows them some simple moves. 

He’s the son of the Angel of Death, Philza Minecraft. He grew up with the presence of Technoblade, he who never dies. He was raised by Wilbur Soot, the maker and ender of symphonies.   
It’s hardly a chore to take out the outpost. He’s grown up with war on his heels and under the long sleeves of his shirt, two of his three hearts are greyed out. Tommyinnit knows death and battle and blood better than he should. 

That night he treks backs, mostly unharmed, and is called a hero. 

The last time he was called a hero, it was by Technoblade. 

He insists anybody would have offered to help. He’s more a good samaritan than a hero. 

The villagers, in his stay, had offered an empty house for him to stay. He stayed there to heal up, but swore to himself he had to keep going forward. The days turned to weeks as the kids continued to ask to be trained, and he helped out with the farmers in their fields. Techno had taught him the ways of farming, and he grudgingly used the knowledge now.   
The weeks turned to months as he made new furniture for his house, bought nicer quilts for his bed, and got to know the names of everyone there.   
When asked for his name, he hesitates. Tommyinnit would give him away instantly if anyone there knew of the Dream SMP. Even Tommy could give him away if the dots were connected. A child who knew how to fight well and was a traveler without a home?

“I'm Theseus.” He offers with a sad smile. 

He accepts he’s settled down when he starts setting up his own potato farm.   
The thought of leaving the warmth and comfort of having a roof over his head makes him weary. His whole time traveling, there was no set destination. He doesn’t want to go back on the road to continue to wander. 

Even if he’s settled down, he doesn’t mingle with the village too much. Talking grated at his throat now, compared to when he would talk people’s ears off. They could ask where he came from, who his family was, how he learned to fight- and he didn’t want to reveal such information. Thinking about the past still hurt, even if it was more of a dull ache rather than a fresh sting. 

Still, sometimes a passing villager would see him teaching a fighting class- now not just overly curious kids but other villagers- and ask him about the pale scar on his neck.   
For a moment the world turns to cold water, and the distorted mask of a smile would fill his vision, but he’d cough and just say, “I lost a bet.” 

Everyone in the village had all three hearts on their wrists, everyone well fed and cared for here. Danger had never graced their lives- except for when pillagers had stolen from their fields and threatened their children.  
But even in the heat of summer, he doesn’t roll up his sleeves. The questions are too much, even if most people know it’s common etiquette not to ask about lost lives.   
He’s too young for the number of scars he has, and he hides more from the world. 

He learns how to calm down from a panic attack on his own, without the calm words of another person to aid him. 

It’s been a year since his last conversation with Tubbo and he feels so much different than that time.   
He thinks back to the night he burned George’s house.   
War had just ended and with it more nightmare-filled nights. He’s used to nightmares, he’s had them since he was a young kid on the streets.

But it’d been a long time since he’d been without family on such a night. Phil used to soothe his tears, and when Phil left home it was Wilbur who took care of him and his nightmares. The comfort of family is part of the reason he invited Wilbur in the first place, even if he barely suffered from nightmares now.   
After the first war, Wilbur was always comforting him, giving him advice on how to cope with his emotions and trauma.   
Sure exile had been rough, but now it’s all over and he has more fuel for his nightmares.

And George got to build his fucking stupid house. 

When nightmares wake him, Wilbur’s not there to comfort him.   
When he feels a panic attack crawling up his arms and down his throat, he doesn’t have Wilbur’s comforting voice telling him to breathe slower.   
When anger starts consuming him- anger at Techno, anger at Phil, anger at his own weakness- he doesn’t have Wilbur help him cool down. 

Instead, he thinks of his twice exploded home and he rages at George’s house. It’d be funny and cathartic to see someone else’s home burn for once.   
Now, in the present, he rarely feels anger. He’s worn out the emotion after spending so much of his youth angry. No, now he has moments of sorrow, of regret, of indignation, but the fire never kindles and takes. Just whines down and sizzles down into embers.   
Then he leaves his new house and pretends he’s a normal, functional human being. 

A wandering trader passes through the village. Tommy catches the conversation between him and another woman who works as a blacksmith. 

“Yeah, L’manberg held a festival that ended with the country taking one of Dream’s lives. They say the god is angry, might invoke more war soon.”

He turns to them, “When was the festival?”

The trader hums, “Oh, back in January. It’s why I started traveling away, if conflict hits I want to be far away. I heard the last time L’manberg went to war the whole place blew up!”

The blacksmith laughs at the trader’s incredulous tone like he’s joking. He laughs too and he realizes they both have never seen such a sight before. They both have never had to look at their home as it ignites and leaves a heartless crater behind. 

The news lingers with him as he lays awake in bed. 

So those fuckers finally took a life from Dream, eh? Too bad nobody knows how many lives he has. Tommy had seen Dream’s exposed wrist with no hearts on it, so it really was a mystery like the rumors had fueled.   
Something deep in his chest aches at the thought of home. Even if homers minded him of war, of pain, of betrayal- L’manberg was still the last place he saw his brother. He had built it with Wilbur, had lived there with Tubbo. 

And L’manberg still was such a hectic place, even with his absence. Dream’s jab -that it was doing better without him- stings less.   
Unfortunately, he also worries. But bothering the trader for more information would be suspicious. It was so far out that the fear of war couldn’t be bothered. 

He bites his tongue as the trader leaves. 

And months pass. His burning curiosity fades, as he returns to the routine his life has become.   
Wake up, tend to crops, fix up a meal, sell his potatoes at the market, talk with the other villagers, go to teach his fighting class, go back home, eat, and sleep.   
He’s quieter than he used to be. The second war had hurt him more than the first, and weeks in exile under the manipulation of Dream had pulled at those wounds. The time spent traveling alone had cemented his tongue and conversation was harder now. 

Even now, when he’d rambled too long about how to hold a sword Dream’s voice whispers in his head, ‘Don’t you think you’re being too annoying? Just shut up.’  
He gulps, finishes his sentence, and insists he sees two students mock duel. He pretends the sight doesn’t send him back to a bridge where he felt his heart beat in tune with Wilbur counting to ten.   
He doesn’t push his students or teach them all he knows. He keeps it simple, he’s not training soldiers. He’s just helping some weak people learn to defend themselves.   
Techno had trained him as a soldier. Unforgiving and violent, and when he cried to Phil the older man would just laugh and say that’s what the real world is like.   
Wilbur would wrap up his bloody and calloused hands, and insist words were better than violence.   
Even at the end, Wilbur hadn’t worn armor or took a sword. 

Of course, one could argue the stacks of TNT were worse. 

Tommy had just wanted to beat Techno once. Just once, so he could laugh in the piglin’s face and glow under Phil’s praise.   
Phil had followed Techno into the snow, though, and with Wilbur’s blood on his sword. 

“Theseus, you’re too young to be down two lives.” A voice startles him.

While fixing a broken door at the fletcher’s house, he’d unconsciously rolled up his sleeves. He scrambles to cover his wrist again, even though he’s already caught.

“Oh don’t look like such a hunted deer, I won’t tattle,” The older woman laughs, “makes sense though. When you came here to looked so dead one could’ve mistaken you for a zombie.” 

He scoffs, “I was a lot worse before.” 

He thinks of his torn and signed clothes. By the end of his stay at Logsted, he’d gotten too apathetic to even stitch up his clothes. He remembers vividly how the wind bit at his exposed skin at the top of the tower-

“You’re one mysterious kid.” 

“Psh, I’m not a kid.” 

Guess he’ll never learn to respect his elders.

  
A bard comes to town while everyone is getting excited about celebrating the solstice. In the town center, everyone takes a break to hear a ballad.   
“… and after the warrior’s glorious victory, the deity known as Dream came down to the battlefield. Over seven feet tall with a featureless face, the hero trembled in his presence-” 

Tommy laughs at that, he can’t help it. 

“And what’s so funny, young man?” The haughty bard pauses strumming his lute. 

“It’s just- unrealistic. And if you call that a song, I’d be surprised. Your instrument sounds out of tune and you play your notes at uneven tempos.” 

Wilbur raised him, of course he knows a thing or two about music. Even if he used to be teased for his voice cracks, he knew plenty of songs. 

“You reckon you could do better?” The man declares. 

“Easily,” Tommy smirks. 

He takes the lute, adjusts the strings, and thinks of all the ballads he knows. The first to come to mind plays in Wilbur’s voice, ‘I heard there was a special place.’   
He shoots that down.   
Next, Technoblade’s voice rings out (across the ruins of a nation he put his heart and soul into) ‘Let me tell you the story of Theseus.’  
He shoots that down too.   
After strumming a few notes, he realizes most of the stories he knows are sad ones. 

“Go on.” The bard taunts at his hesitance. 

He’s tired of sad stories. Of blown up homes and betrayal amongst friends. 

“Once upon a time,” The bard laughs at the cliche beginning, “a boy was born.”

Tommy is tired of sad stories. And sure as hell isn’t going to become one. 

“He’d become known as many things- a prince, a soldier, a hero, a friend, and even a criminal. But he was born just a boy in the streets. Taken in by a fallen king who was a distant father, it was his brother who raised him.   
Eventually, the two would found a nation that stood for freedom from tyranny. And Dream was that tyranny, a chaotic god who thrived from conflict.

The god was as tall- well as tall as me. He wasn’t featureless, but instead wore a mask that hid his face, and it was easy to forget he was not a simple mortal by the simple way he lived. The boy fights in the war, but they are betrayed by a friend. In the end, the boy offers the god his most prized possessions- his music discs, and the nation is freed. 

The nation falls under the rule of a dictator, though, and the boy is exiled with his brother. They fight against the dictator but- but the brother had planted TNT. The nation blows up again, this time the boy’s brother dies. Stabbed through the heart by the fallen king.   
The boy keeps going but is exiled yet again after burning down a house. Exiled by his best friend. The god Dream taunts the young boy, and the boy runs.”

Nobody here knows the detailed story of L’manberg. But this isn’t about L’manberg anyway. 

“He finds home somewhere else, but he never forgets his friends. His home. So after resting a while, he turns around and returns home. He is welcomed with hesitance but warmth. His friends all agree to protect him from Dream, revoke his exile. Dream, down a life, retreats from bothering them. They build up towers, monuments, streets. They grow, and enemies know to stay away. He puts away his sword and shield.   
The boy becomes a man and learns peace in its entirety. 

You couldn’t quite call him a hero, for he’s acted selfishly many times. But when he returned home he apologized to everyone he ever wronged- except Dream, screw Dream- and he stops yearning for his music discs. Wars have been fought over them, but he fought for them once upon of time because of what they stood for. They once stood for power, rarity, for loyalty. But none of those things existed in the same form anymore. 

  
The boy builds a bee farm with his best friend, who he makes up with, and lives happily ever after.” 

The bard scoffs, “Unrealistic you call my story. There’s no way one hero goes through so much-“

“He’s not a hero. That’s the point.”

“Well, it’s ridiculous still. Why not describe Dream as an ethereal deity, instead of whatever you tried making. You made him sound so normal. And how does one person get exiled twice from the same nation? And where’s the tragic end? All heroes die in the end.”

“He’s not a hero.” He growls out again. 

Tommy returns the lute and stomps back home. He feels vulnerable, showcasing the tragedies of his life out in the open like that. And then, to be ridiculed? It makes his blood boil with a fire he thought had died out in his youth. Well, he’s still young.   
He’s not a hero, he’s not going to die like one. He’s going to get back home. 

He remembers a year ago he’d asked Dream if he could see the tree set up in L’manberg. He’d been denied. Now stares at another decorated tree with a new determination. 

He waits for the cold months to pass but starts stocking up on food and supplies for the long trip back. Pulls a certain cloak and coat out of long storage.   
When the flowers start blooming, he packs his bags.   
The town has grown with his presence. They’re stronger, and have walls now to protect them.   
If he really tried to, he wouldn’t have minded living there until he grew old and grey. 

But he waves goodbye to the people he never quite opened up to. Even now, they say ‘Goodbye, Theseus.’

He’s spent so much time running from who he was. 

The travel back is harsh. He can hardly believe he made the trek when he was so worn, as back then he barely slept and barely ate. He still had wounds healing and all that kept his feet moving then was adrenaline and spite.   
Now, he’s stronger and sturdier. He makes fewer stops by villagers, and the time flies by faster until he reaches snow. 

He remembers the moment of hesitance, so long ago. The scenario where he bunked with Technoblade.   
There’s no way it would’ve worked out, his brain supplies. He was a feral kid with a lot of trauma, and there’s no way Techno would’ve wanted to deal with that mess. 

He continues through the snow until it melts and he meets the ocean. 

It’s not the same beach that Logsted was, but he’s not sure he’d recognize it anyway. He didn’t stay there long, and after so much time it’d have to be overgrown with grass covering the open wounds of craters. He’s going in the right direction though, and he makes a boat to cross the sea with. 

Memories of rain plague him. Watching Dream row as the rain came down heavy. It soaked through his clothes, froze him to his core, and he was numb by the time they reached shore.   
That was mostly because of the shock, though.   
Now, the boat his sand at the shore of L’manberg, and the sun warms his skin. 

It hasn’t been that long since he left, but traveling inward from the sea, he notices L’manberg has expanded. 

More people live there- here now. Word on the street was that Dream hasn’t been seen since the Green Festival. And well, Dream was the one who insisted on his exile in the first place. 

He can’t help but feel he stands out in a red cap and worn red coat, but he can’t be bothered. The nostalgia hits as he looks at the semi-recognizable streets.   
Tommy asks around about the state of things. Ranboo became president last February, and once the post-war craze ended, L’manberg really started to flourish. Trade with other countries, build more houses and establishments and got a functioning government. 

People like Quackity and Fundy had stayed, but word is Tubbo backed away from the spotlight.   
Technoblade and Philza had stayed away, not heard from since the war. That doesn’t bother Tommy as much as it once would have. He used to idolize them, after all.

There’s a statue of him in a town center. It’s almost funny to him.

The sign next to the statue describes his role in the founding of the nation and romanticizes his struggles through two wars. Then it says…. he died in exile. Gone but not forgotten. 

What the fuck?

Sure, he ran away but he didn’t- 

The tower.   
He had tried to jump. The helplessness and sorrow had almost drowned him. He remembers that, too. 

Who had gone to look? When had they looked? Did they miss him by a matter of hours or weeks? 

That…. changes things. Apparently, all of his friends thought he was dead. Maybe even his family had caught wind.   
Was there a funeral? There had to have been one if they made a fucking statue of him. 

Theseus died in exile. But Tommy had made it back home. 

Tommy walks the way through the streets until he finds his way to Tubbo’s old home. Hopefully, he still lived there.   
He walks the wooden bridges above the crater of old L’manberg. The sounds of explosions had never really left him, even now as it filled with water. He knocks on the door of his old friend, and bits at his lip. 

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe Tubbo never wanted to see him again. Maybe he’d even be sent away- or worse, executed. Maybe he was happy Tommy was presumed dead-

The door opens, and Tubbo is taller. Idiot must have hit a growth spurt finally. The bright red burn scars have faded into a brown color. He looks more tired. 

  
Tubbo doesn’t say a word. Instead, he lunges to wrap his arms around Tommy in a tight hug. 

He returns the force of the hug, and he has found home. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed please leave a kudos and/or comment! I've as got another ongoing fic that's a little more coherent than this one.
> 
> If you wanna scream about dream smp with me I'm super active on my tumblr: https://peachy-n-bee.tumblr.com/
> 
> I've also got a twitter but I'm very new and still figuring it out: https://twitter.com/Phoe19441749


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